


Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2007-11-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five moments in the lives of Denethor and Aragorn. Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

> 2941\. [...]The Battle of the Five Armies in Dale. Death of Thorin II. Bard of Esgaroth slays Smaug.  
> 2944\. Bard rebuilds Dale and becomes King. (The Tale of Years)

_2951 T.A.; Outside of Laketown; Denethor's POV._

It was the eyes that first captured Denethor's attention: their grey color so rare outside of Gondor. Who was he?

He had traveled north with a small company from Minas Tirith, to commemorate the tenth anniversary of Smaug's fall and to forge a diplomatic bond with Bard's folk on his father's behalf. If the weather had cooperated, they would have reached Dale by nightfall, but the rains forced them to seek accommodations at the Black Swan. It was there, in that inn's common room, that Denethor first saw the man.

Try though he might, Denethor could not place him. He was certain the stranger had not traveled with the company from Minas Tirith. Who was he, then? A bastard son of some trader who had bedded one of the ladies of Laketown, perhaps? Or was he some Gondor-born lad who had deserted land and duty to seek his fortune in the new kingdoms of this land?

Denethor let his eyes wander over the stranger, assessing him. His hair was as black as Denethor's – indeed, the man resembled the steward's son so closely he might have been nearest kin –while his shoulders and back appeared strong. If not for his rough tunic and worn boots, Denethor would have thought him a swordsman. The man dropped several gold coins on the bar and walked over to a table on the other side of the room. His stride devoured the distance in several long, purposeful steps; Denethor could not help but notice the way his hips swayed a little as he walked.

His face suddenly felt overwarm, and Denethor guessed the fire blazing on the nearby hearth was not wholly to blame. He hung his head forward so his hair fell in front of his blushed cheeks. What about this man so excited him? Or about any man, for that matter? He had danced with lord's daughters, even bedded a chambermaid when he was sixteen. He had enjoyed that well enough. Certainly he had observed the women at court in this way, but a man did not take notice of such things in another man! And yet....

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "Who is that man?" he asked his aide. "Do you know him?"

Mormegil looked questioningly toward the man across the room and shook his head. "I do not recognize him. Does my lord wish me to inquire after his name?"

Denethor began to nod his affirmation but then stopped himself. The man was laughing at some tale one of his companions was telling, a weary smile lighting his face. The firelight gleaming in his grey eyes reminded Denethor of the Tower of Ecthelion, how it caught the morning's first sun. It was so beautiful it nearly took Denethor's breath away.

"Nay," he told Mormegil. "I wish to speak with him myself, at once." And Denethor stood up from his chair and hurried over to the man, Mormegil following in his wake.

* * *

  
**Note** : My Mormegil is inspired by just_ann_now's OC of the same name, a gentleman's gentleman of Denethor.    
  
The name of the inn is a private joke, perhaps only recognizable to a handful of people. In philosophy a "black swan" is something thought impossible that actually comes to exist. For more information, see  <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_swan_theory> .    
  
Fire is associated with passion, especially love and laughter, and with the season of summer. That's why this story occurs in the fall– metaphorically, when the passion of summer is being subdued to colder rational thinking.


	2. Aether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five moments in the lives of Denethor and Aragorn. Slash.

> I watch as he takes his turn in the sparring pit, moving with unconscious grace, lithe as a cat. I pretend to study him; in truth, I cannot tear my eyes away. When it is my turn I stumble, cursing my previous distraction, for it was his form with a sword I should have studied, and not the movement of his hips and shoulders. (From "[If Ever](http://community.livejournal.com/lotr_sesa/18997.html)", by [just_ann_now](http://just-ann-now.livejournal.com).)  
>   
> Marriage, save for rare ill chances or strange fates, was the natural course of life for all the Eldar... (From "Laws and Customs of the Eldar," _Morgoth's Ring_ , HoMe Vol. 10)

_Midsummer 2977 T.A.; The Steward's House, Minas Tirith; Denethor's POV._

Denethor propped himself up on his elbows, blinking frantically as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his bed-chamber. Had it truly been a dream? It had all felt so real. Even now, he could feel the warmth of Thorongil's breath against his lips. Denethor looked down, dismayed that he was already nearly stiff. He sighed heavily. Beside him, Finduilas shifted in her sleep, and Denethor chastised himself for his thoughtlessness. If his seditious body insisted on robbing him of his rest, that was his own affair, but he would not wake his bride. 

He eased himself out of bed and walked over to the washstand, wetting a cloth and scrubbing at his face. Finduilas mumbled something to herself that Denethor could not quite catch, and he shut his eyes in frustration. He loved his wife, truly! They were not even a year married, and he still found himself at times driven to distraction by the mere thought of her. And just yesterday the healers had confirmed their suspicion; Finduilas would give birth ere next year's planting.

But then he had seen Thorongil, stripped to his undertunic in deference to the summer sun, as he sparred with Golasgil. How Thorongil had smiled when at last Golasgil lowered his sword, ceding the match. It was that smile that caught his attention, much as the eyes had first attracted him nigh three decades ago. Oh, he remembered that smile. He did not know much about this Thorongil, but Denethor knew he was the same man he had seen in a crowded common room south of Dale.

Denethor shook his head a little, as if that would shake those thoughts from his head. He knew what sometimes happened in the dark corners of the soldiers' barracks, how some men never married while some few others laid with other men behind their wives' backs, but he doubted his father would well tolerate such a love in his son. So the revelation that Thorongil was the same man who had plagued his dreams for weeks after the meeting south of Dale comforted him. He was a lover of women – and of one man, but that was mere oddity, an aberration from his truer nature, he told himself – and he was not bound to the strange fates the Eldar claimed followed those who lusted after their own sex.

Yet how could he be so sure? He looked down to where his nightshirt hung awkwardly, revealing his arousal, and his pulse quickened as he remembered the way Thorongil kissed him in the dream, how his breath smelled like whisky. Denethor could almost feel the course brush of Thorongil's stubble against his cheek, the featherlight touch of his tongue as it darted across Denethor's lips, and Denethor's knees nearly buckled. Should he just stroke himself as he had as a lad and be done with it, he wondered? He spat into his palm and rubbed his hands together.

"Denethor?" Finduilas called from the bed. "Is aught amiss?"

He hesitated, for once unsure of what to say. He could not turn to face the bed; if he did, his arousal would be plain, and Finduilas would demand the full story. Which would not be such a horrible thing under normal circumstances – he knew his wife's appetites well – but still, he hesitated to tell her he had dreamt of the mysterious captain.

Denethor opened his mouth to give some answer, but too late: he heard her footsteps as she crossed the room, and Denethor hastily wiped his hand on his thigh.

She rested her head against his shoulder, her breath caressing the back of his neck, as she snaked her hand around his waste. "Denethor, will you not—" Her fingers brushed against Denethor's hardened length, sending a thrill down Denethor's spine, and she stopped in midsentence. Walking around so she faced him, Finduilas surveyed her husband. Her lips curled into a smile, and she took his hand in hers, kissing the heel of his still-damp palm. "Come back to bed," she said. 

She stepped away from the washstand, not releasing her grasp on Denethor's hand, but he did not follow.  _Ai, love, if you but knew..._ She bit her lip in a mock-coy gesture, though Denethor guessed she used it to hide her own confusion. He could not explain his hesitation to her; he did not understand these feelings himself. "Whatever woke you," she said after a moment, "whatever dream-phantoms trouble you, I am your wife. Will you not lie with me?" She tugged gently at his hand, and this time he followed her back to bed, searching for words to explain his thoughts.

Standing before the side of the bed, she wrapped one arm around Denethor's waist and pulled him towards her. Rising up on the balls of her feet, she kissed him passionately. She ran a finger along the sensitive skin between Denethor's legs, and Denethor groaned into her mouth. He knew he should not use anyone in this way, least of all Finduilas, when Thorongil still lingered in his thoughts, and he started to push her back. But when she rolled the skin of his earlobe between her thumb and forefinger, a sensitive spot that she alone knew to exploit, Denethor bit her lip without fully realizing what he did. She seemed willing. And was it not nobler to turn his passions to one who loved him so well and so freely, than to seek cold solace in his own palm?

He eased her gown off her shoulders and cupped her breast in his hand, running his thumb over her nipple. Finduilas sighed into his mouth. He loosened the sash at her waist and let her gown fall to the ground, then bent his head to suckle at her other breast. He let his tongue dance across her flesh as he remembered his dream, Thorongil's on his own lip, until at last he felt Finduilas arching a little into his mouth. That feeling of his wife's soft skin against his lips made up his mind for him, if in truth there had ever been a decision to make. He ran a finger between her thighs and found her ready. If she could not have his whole heart this evening, at least her body would not rue their joining.

Finduilas pulled Denethor's shirt over his head and dropped it beside her gown. She kissed him once more, sucking at his lip, before Denethor laid her down on the bed. He straddled her and eagerly sank between her thighs. But then he stopped. Much as he tried, his thoughts dwelt more on Thorongil than Finduilas. He imagined the captain splayed on his stomach, his arse rising to meet Denethor's descending hips, and he nearly spent himself there and then.

He stilled himself for a moment, inhaling deeply. He smelled the sweet scent of the soaps his wife used, felt her full breasts against him, and found it near impossible to imagine her as Thorongil. He ran his thumb along her slender waist and smiled. Pulling back a little, he thrust into her again, this time sinking fully within her, and he felt his wife's hands against his back, holding them together for a moment. Her warm breath against his neck thrilled him. He slid out of her, then back in again, kissing her with each thrust, first on the lips, and then on the neck, the forehead, the shoulder. 

Before long he felt his breath quickening and his blood coursing heatedly beneath his skin. He bit his lips to stay himself but found he was beyond such help. Giving three short thrusts, he spilled himself within her and collapsed against her chest.

And if his mind was still not fully devoted to her alone, at least it was her name on his lips at the last.

 

 

* * *

  
**Note** : This story was inspired by just_ann_now's story "[If Ever](http://community.livejournal.com/lotr_sesa/18997.html), though I hope what I have written is comprehensible without knowledge of it. I used the events of that story with her permission.   
  
Aether is the element from which everything is made, including the other four elements. As best I understand it, it is a  _tabula rasa_ , and this story is all about potentiality: the possibility to suppress his passion for Thorongil, or to use Finduilas's body to fantasize further about Thorongil. I'll leave it up to the reader to decide whether he succeeded in doing the right thing in this situation.


	3. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five moments in the lives of Denethor and Aragorn. Slash.

Some people find homosexual pairings in Ardaverse implausible. Especially homosexual pairings where there isn't any real subtext that the characters could be gay, and  _especially_ especially where the characters are involved in canonical heterosexual romances. These stories involve Denethor and Thorongil being sexually attracted to each other, with varying degrees of actually acting on that attraction. So that difficulty with plausibility is obviously an issue. I do not expect the reader to believe this is what Tolkien intended for these two men's relationships; I do not fully believe that myself, though I do think the canonical sources are vague enough on the period that D/T isn't un-canonical.    
  
But mere plausibility is not enough for a pairing to seem like a real possibility . We all come into contact with hundreds of people on the street every day, and most of us end up in relationships with very few of them – or even wanting to be. What is it about these two characters that makes this relationship (such as it is) likely, even necessary? For me the answer lies in Denethor's passionate dislike of Aragorn. Whatever you think of Denethor and Aragorn-as-Thorongil, we can all agree that the two men are not apathetic. Denethor is in his fifties, after all, by the time Thorongil leaves Gondor. Certainly Denethor's father would have had other favored captains in those years. What about Thorongil was so different?   
  
I'm reminded of Eli Wiesel's quote, that "the opposite of love is not hatred, but indifference." And he's right. I've found in my own life that it's much easier to switch from love to hate, than to jump the gap between passion and indifference. I think something about Aragorn must have provoked some very passionate feelings in Denethor. Those feelings need not have been sexual, but they could have been, and so I chose to explore them in this way.   
  
I certainly have tried to take into account the two men's primary relationships with Finduilas and Arwen respectively. I also have tried to preserve the canonical characters as much as I can. All of that said, however, I am satisfied if the reader can accept the Denethor/Thorongil relationship for the duration of this vignette series, regardless of what they think about the larger canon.    
  
For these stories I've assumed a basic knowledge of the LOTR appendices (and for the first story, a very basic knowledge of the end of  _The Hobbit_ ). I have tried to give as much context as I can through date and location headers, canon quotes, notes, and within the stories themselves. If you do not understand a reference, please let me know so I can try to make it more clear.   
  
I have also based these stories on the five elements of classical philosophy. I do not think it is necessary to know anything about these concepts, though I do think they may enrich the story for those who are familiar with Greek philosophy. If you're curious about that, let me know and I'll do my best to explain the pertinent material.   
  
These vignettes were inspired by a request from ribby on behalf of just_ann_now. Beta'd by agape4gondor.


	4. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five moments in the lives of Denethor and Aragorn. Slash.

> At last he got leave of the Steward and gathered a small fleet, and he came to Umbar unlooked-for by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss. But when they came back to Pelargir, to men's grief and wonder, he could not return to Minas Tirith, where great honour awaited him. (Appendix A, Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion, "The Stewards")

_February, 2980 T.A.; Pelargir; Aragorn's POV_

Back in the council room, Thorongil had thought it odd when Denethor challenged him to a test of skill. Such things were not uncommon among Gondor's officers, but in the past neither man had sought the other out. Denethor always seemed uncomfortable around him, and Thorongil, for his part, knew that he felt things too deeply where the the Ruling Steward's heir was concerned. Denethor had tried to keep some distance between the two of them when circumstances allowed. Yet this afternoon Denethor challenged him, and Thorongil deemed it unwise to refuse him.

So here he stood in a cove off one of the streams that fed into Anduin just north of Pelargir, the cool water nearly to his knees. Denethor insisted that wrestling in water would force them to think further ahead since they could not move as quickly in water as on land, but Thorongil had his doubts. Was it really wise to move so quickly when they could not be sure of their footing? Still the rivers in Eriador were too frigid to allow this type of exercise, so perhaps Denethor knew best.

"Ready yourself, Captain!"

Thorongil pushed aside his misgivings. It was too late now to step down. He shifted his foot to gain a better balance and raised his arm into the traditional opening stance. He had of course learned unarmed combat as a child in Rivendell, though he had never fought with shifting silt beneath his feet. Denethor lunged at him; Thorongil ducked. He stepped right so that Denethor missed him, tripping over his leg. Denethor fell to his knees and Thorongil helped him up. 

Again Denethor moved towards Thorongil, this time catching his arm. Thorongil, though, maneuvered behind Denethor in a move Elrohir had taught him years ago, twisting Denethor's shoulder, and Denethor let go with a hiss. 

Denethor shook his head for a second before retaking the starting stance. The two men circled around each other for a moment, until finally Thorongil rushed towards toward Denethor. He reached under the water and grabbed Denethor's leg, pulling it out from under him. Thorongil held out his hand to help Denethor up again, but Denethor did not surface. 

Thorongil ducked under the water and saw Denethor lying face down in the mud, not moving. He quickly grabbed the back of Denethor's tunic and pulled him to the surface, then dragged the man to the shore. Looking closely at Denethor, he noticed that his chest was still, not rising and falling as it ought to be. Suddenly thankful for the training his foster-father had given him in the healing arts, Thorongil sprang into action.

He slapped Denethor's face, but the shock did nothing. He knelt before Denethor and began alternately pressing on his chest and breathing into his mouth. As he did so, the thought struck him how ludicrously foolish it was to wrestle with the steward's son in such a secluded area, especially given how Ecthelion favored Thorongil almost like a son – but then Thorongil realized he had no time for thought and focused instead on getting Denethor to breathe.

He struck Denethor again, this time hard, and breathed into his mouth once more. He moved to push on Denethor's chest but before he could do that Denethor coughed, water gurgling in the back of his throat. Thorongil sat Denethor upright and slapped Denethor's back to get him to cough up the water. At last Denethor began to breathe normally; Thorongil eased him back against a nearby rock.

"What.... what happened?" Denethor asked, a slightly dazed look in his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair and started at the sight of blood on his fingertips. 

"Troll's breath," Thorongil hissed. Lifting his tunic, he tore a strip of cloth from his undertunic and handed it to Denethor. "Hold this to your wound," he said, but Denethor just looked at him dazedly. "You must have hit your head when you fell." When Denethor still did not react, Thorongil squatted beside him and felt for the injury, and then raised Denethor's arm to hold the cloth against it. "We must get you to a healer soon," Thorongil continued. "Can you walk, or shall I send for help?" Thorongil nodded to the rock face beyond which their aides waited in case they were needed.

Denethor tried to turn to face him but hissed in pain before he had gotten far. Thorongil looked at him gravely. "If you cannot turn your head, you certainly cannot walk." He removed his hand from Denethor's head, and when Denethor's hand fell away, he raised it to his head again. "Hold the cloth in place as best you can. I'll return as soon as I can." 

But Denethor grabbed Thorongil's wrist with his free hand. Screwing his eyes shut against the pain, he forced his face toward Thorongil and looked at him earnestly. He opened his mouth as if to speak but only nonsense noises came out. "Still yourself," Thorongil said. Denethor grunted in frustration and squeezed Thorongil's hand urgently. 

Once more Denethor opened his mouth as if to say something but this time closed it without uttering a sound. Instead he looked into Thorongil's eyes, and Thorongil fought the urge to look away. Denethor's gaze was too open, too trusting for one who had hidden even his true name his whole life. Thorongil had always longed for honesty, but faced with the unmasked emotions in Denethor's eyes he shifted backwards. 

For a long moment he met Denethor's gaze until he could stand it no longer. "Rest you well, lord," he said. He gently pried Denethor's fingers from his wrist. "I'll be hardly a moment." 

Thorongil hurried over towards the rock face. He explained what had happened. Mormegil hurried back to the cove to see to his master, and Thorongil sent his own aide back to seek a healer from the military encampment outside Pelargir. 

But Thorongil for his part could not bring himself to go back to the cove. Denethor's gaze, for once honest and open, had unnerved the Dunedan thoroughly, and he knew that if he was wise, he would put as many miles between Denethor and himself as he could. The man had a wife! What's more, that wife was the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and if that was not enough, the man himself was heir to the stewardship of Gondor. Thorongil could only imagine what punishment would fall on a vagabond mercenary soldier from the north with no family to speak of. He would find himself hanging from a noose if he let his heart rule his actions where Denethor was concerned – if Ecthelion did not first run him through with a sword.

But there was the rub. It would be wise to leave Gondor and never return; Thorongil knew that. And he still loved Arwen, hoped some day to win her hand. But something about the steward's son still called to him. A fierce passion lay dormant beneath Denethor's dour expression, and a devotion to what he claimed as his own that would rival a balrog's fire. Was that love? Perhaps something of the sort; at least it was an admiration that could easily turn to passion. Thorongil had never been one to dwell overmuch on what he could not have, but the suggestion in Denethor's eyes was painfully tantalizing. 

He swallowed the guttural cry building in his throat. There was too much at risk – he should not even consider the hope Denethor's look had awoken in him – but his heart refused to bow utterly to reason, as he wished it would.

Thorongil groaned under his breath. He would consider all of this more after the healer saw to Denethor. For now, there was work to do.

* * *

  
**Note** : Mormegil is, once again, just_ann_now's original character. I borrow him lovingly and try to return him unscathed. Beta is by agape4gondor.   
  
I was originally going to spell out in much more detail exactly what is going on at the beginning of this piece, but I couldn't do it concisely and it seemed like an infodump. And as it's really not that relevant to this piece, I thought I'd just explain it here.   
  
In many fanfics Denethor and Aragorn disagreed about the wisdom of the Corsair raid, and I personally accept this position. So while I'm sure Denethor would do what his father ordered him to do, I don't think he would have pushed to actually be part of the raid. In fact, it's pretty canonical that he wasn't part of the raid because news of Aragorn's desertion reaches him in Minas Tirith, not in Pelargir. Denethor's head injury almost insures that he won't be on that boat, but why is he in Pelargir at all?   
  
My thinking is that, while the strike is ultimately in Aragorn's hands, Denethor as captain-general needs to give the final approval to troop deployments, battle plans, etc. So he comes down to Pelargir, where the troops are being made ready and intends to return to Minas Tirith before the deployment.   
  
See? Utterly tangential to the story, and too much information to work into such a short story, but I thought some people might be interested.   
  
As for the element: this time it's water. Water is associated with cold (ergo the wintry setting), and with intuition and emotion. In Taoist philosophy it is also associated with intelligence. Having too much water supposedly makes you less likely to stick with your decisions. (And yes, I know that I said I was going with classical Greek philosophy and not Chinese philosophy, but it's just too perfect of a connection not to use.)


	5. Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five moments in the lives of Denethor and Aragorn. Slash.

> At the time many thought that Thorongil had departed before his rival became his master, though indeed Thorongil had never himself vied with Denethor, nor held himself higher than the servant of his father. And in one matter only were their counsels to the Steward at variance: Thorongil often warned Ecthelion not to put trust in Saruman the White in Isengard, but to welcome rather Gandalf the Grey. [...]Later, when all was made clear, many believed that Denethor, who was subtle in mind and looked further and deeper than other men of his day, had discovered who this stranger Thorongil in truth was. (Appendix A, Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion, "The Stewards")

_3003 T.A., the Steward's House, Minas Tirith; Denethor's POV._

Denethor remembered how his jaw had dropped a little at the news the spy had brought that afternoon. He couldn't remember when his emotions had shown so plainly. Even now, as he sat in his wife's flower garden – for it would always be Finduilas's special patch of earth to his mind, though servants had chosen and tended the flowers for several years now – even as he sat there, his mind boggled at the news. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Not that there was anyone there to hear his words; it simply seemed that there was something that needed to be said, if Denethor could but find the words.

Both Ecthelion and Denethor had wondered at how quickly Thorongil had left Gondor so soon after his greatest triumph, and so Ecthelion had ordered his captains to keep an open ear for any news of Thorongil. The Ithilien captain had seen him slip into Mordor, but no one had any news of him after that.

Which made the matter bother Denethor more than it otherwise would have. He hated to leave a puzzle unsolved. In his youth, when he had the leisure to pursue his mind's interests, he would have sought the truth with single-minded determination, though it took him years to unravel the problem. But those years were dark; Ecthelion grew ill and died, and Denethor had the worries of a kingdom thrust upon him. And then Faramir was born, and Finduilas....

Denethor swallowed, hard, trying to clear the lump lodged in his throat. Even now, with more than a decade passed, those unexpected thoughts sometimes still took his breath away. Sometimes he would smile at her memory, occasionally even laughing at some tale of one of her foibles. Certainly he was less gruff and withdrawn than his cousin Húrin accused him of being in the years after Finduilas had died. Still, he would rather not think of her overmuch, if he could help it.

He bent down toward the ground and dug his fingers into the soil on a whim. The trouble was, this garden was tied to his memories of both Thorongil and Finduilas. In his last years in Gondor, the mysterious captain served in Pelargir, building up Gondor's navy, and he often met with Finduilas's father and brother. When duty brought him to Minas Tirith, he would often visit with Finduilas, trading news of her family for her genteel company. Finduilas had never given Denethor cause to doubt her fidelity – if anything, she should have been the one to grow suspicious if it had been Denethor spending so much time alone with Thorongil – and so Denethor had let them be.

He wondered, had this soil been last touched by his wife or his rival? Because, in the end, Thorongil proved that he was no friend to Ecthelion's son. Denethor had openly declared himself to Thorongil, if not in words then in gestures that should have been plainly understood, and Thorongil had never said a word of it. That afternoon was but a hazy memory for Denethor, but he remembered quite clearly how Thorongil had looked away, and how afterwards the captain had been careful never to be alone in the same room with Denethor. And then he had left Gondor, sending only a cryptic note instead of coming to Minas Tirith himself. Minas Tirith was not so far from Pelargir as all that!

Denethor looked down at his clenched fist. He sighed heavily and let the crumbled soil fall to the ground. Would that his passions for that cursed stranger were so easily let go!

Perhaps that explained how the Black Swan had completely slipped his mind. As difficult as it was to turn his thoughts to Finduilas, his mind bucked even more when it came to Thorongil, so that he could not stop _not_ thinking about him, but never truly thought clearly where the man was concerned. Or perhaps it was just the business of the years, and the many cares that kept him occupied with other matters.

Whatever the reason, it never occurred to him to search out the truth about Thorongil in the land where he had first met him, all those years ago. That first meeting in the Black Swan seemed so insubstantial, and it happened such a long time before. But then the gifts had come from Bain son of Bard, now the king of Dale, in thanks for fifty years of friendship. Immediately it reminded him of how he had met a man with a smile like Thorongil and the grey eyes of Númenor fifty years earlier, and so he had sent a spy north at once, to see what might still be learned.

And luck was with him. The spy found the innkeeper's young son, by now approaching old age himself, who had seen Denethor and Thorongil that way. As it happened the man had been an artist of sorts in his youth, and a ring Thorongil had worn had caught his fancy. The spy had brought some of the man's old sketches back to Gondor and had shown them to Denethor that very afternoon.

Denethor had recognized the emerald eyes, twin serpents, and golden flowers at once – it was clearly the ancient emblem of Finarfin's house. That thought had unsettled Denethor, for strangers in taverns did not usually bear marks of ancient elven houses. And then Denethor remembered the story a minstrel had told him in his youth, of how the elf lord Finrod had given a ring to Barahir, the father of the famed Beren Erchamion, and how the ring had been passed from father to son, even from Elendil to Isildur.

Denethor felt his hand shaking slightly with fury. Even as he sat there he knew it had been wise of Thorongil to keep his true name secret – _Aragorn,_ he thought bitterly, though even in his anger he did not dare speak it – but still Denethor felt his pride sorely wounded. His father had trusted Thorongil with the safety of Gondor. Denethor himself had let the mysterious captain into his closest circle, and if most of Gondor had not thought the men closer than rival captains, it was only because Denethor did not truly trust himself to let the man get too close. Thorongil had sat in this garden and talked with Finduilas, a privilege many a Gondorian would have vied for. And yet Thorongil had never spoken a word, never let slip so much as the barest hint of his lineage.

He knew he should respect that kind of restraint. If it had been any other man, with any other secret, Denethor would have admired the tight-lipped control. But it had not been another man. Even in looks Thorongil had looked like a fellow son of Ecthelion, and as far as the heart was concerned, he had been one of the very few Denethor had longed to name _friend._

Yet for all his anger at the betrayal, the lies were not the worst part. Denethor remembered a dreamed kiss so passionate he ached from the memory. He pushed that fantasy out of his mind as best he could, but it returned to him unbidden time and again. And then there were the true memories from his waking life: a care-free laugh echoing across an inn's common room, the games of chess, the look of concern and worry when Thorongil realized that Denethor was well and truly injured, the sheer joy of their no-holds-barred debates around the council table, a hundred other memories from the years Thorongil had spent in Minas Tirith.

Denethor pulled himself to his feet. Had it all been a ruse, a way for Thorongil to weasel himself into the throne? Denethor remembered how Thorongil had always taken Mithrandir's sides in the debates, and now he wondered what devilry had been at play. _Ai, Thorongil, leave Minas Tirith fair alone, for you will not like your welcome should you ever return._ He stormed out of the garden and shut the gate soundly in his wake.

* * *

  
**Note** : Tolkien does not tell us how Denethor found out the truth about Thorongil/Aragorn. I have always assumed it had something to do with the fact that Aragorn was always hanging out with the sons of Elrond and insists on carrying around a broken sword (surely Denethor had spies who could have gathered this information?), but in this story the Ring of Barahir seemed a more likely clue for Denethor to latch onto.  
  
Which brings up the matter of dates, ages, and when certain someones would have received the tokens of their household. In the first part of this series, I had Aragorn going to Dale in the fall of 2951. He would have turned twenty the previous April. We know canonically that Aragorn gets the Ring of Barahir when he is twenty, so it is not unreasonable that he'd have it before meeting Denethor in Laketown. But that raises the question of what he's doing there when he's just went to live among the Rangers. My thought is that, even though he's young, he's also Isildur's heir, and so any event big enough to draw Gondorians to Erebor could bring the northern Dúnedain as well. And Aragorn would be encouraged to be around for diplomatic events.  
  
That's my rationale, anyway. Really, I've thought a lot more about Denethor than I have Aragorn, and so his side of these stories is probably more developed.  
  
This story is inspired by the element of earth. Earth is associated with practicality and restraint, and the concept of restraint is clearly something Denethor's struggling with here – both his anger at Aragorn now and his love for Aragorn earlier in his life. Earth is also connected in Greek mythology to the feminine goddesses (Ceres, Demeter, Persephone), and also to fertility – ergo the setting in a garden connected to Finduilas, the mother of Denethor's children.


	6. Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five moments in the lives of Denethor and Aragorn. Slash.

> The servants of the Lord stood gazing as stricken men at the house of the dead; and even as Gandalf came to the end of Rath Dínen there was a great noise. Looking back they saw the dome of the house crack and smokes issue forth; and then with a rush and rumble of stone it fell in a flurry of fire. (The Pyre of Denethor, _The Return of the King_ )

  
  
_June, 3019 T.A.; Rath Dínen, Minas Tirith_  
  
Aragorn stepped into the rubble, his cloak trailing in the soot. All up and down the Silent Street, the family tombs stood their silent vigil, as proud and stoic as they had ever been. He had walked down Rath Dínen once when he had served Gondor as Thorongil, when Fíriel wife of Ecthelion had died, so the proud marble porches and soaring arches were not wholly new to him. He had known it would look changed, nearly deserted as it was, but he had not been prepared for the inescapable gap left by the burned-down Steward's House. It reminded Aragorn of a child's smile, but with the front teeth knocked out.  
  
The shock of it took his breath away, and he struggled to catch it. Even with mid-summer just weeks away, the air here was chilled. Aragorn remembered having that same sensation at Fíriel's funeral years before; the cold air had caught in his chest then just as it did now, making it that much harder to breathe. He supposed there must be a natural enough reason – winds off the mountain, the shade of the tall mausoleums whose rich marble absorbed the sun and cast gloomy shadows along the street – yet to his mind there was nothing natural about this place. The cold reminded him of the lifeless flesh of the dead: Halbarad's waxy eyelids when he had closed them for the last time all those months ago, or Boromir's cold hands when Aragorn had placed him in the boat after Amon Hen, or a hundred other friends and comrades he had bid farewell to.  
  
Yet not Denethor. Denethor had no flesh left, and it was anything but cold; the flame had consumed him.  
  
He bent down and lifted a rock, but found nothing but soot; he set it down again, coughing a little at the cloud of ash he had disturbed when he replaced the stone. He sighed at the sight of singed beams and cracked stonework collapsed into a chaotic heap. It had always been a fool's errand to seek for Denethor's rod, especially to look for it himself. Faramir would need a new token to mark his authority. Even if the rod had been easily reachable, even if the return of Isildur's line had not stripped Húrin's house of the rule of Gondor, Aragorn would not be so cruel as to force Faramir to carry an heirloom so marked by Denethor's last deeds.   
  
No, he sought for the stewards' white rod for a different reason. Would that his motivation had been so practical! The news of Denethor's death – and most of all the way he died – had weighed on Aragorn's mind since he first heard it. Ai! but Pelennor had been soaked through with blood that day. In his heart of hearts he knew it was best that Denethor died before he was unseated, but Aragorn still longed to see his old rival and friend once more.   
  
He had wanted some memoir of Denethor, something he could hold in his hand, to remind him of the danger of leaving words unsaid, and the white rod had seemed a fitting memento. But now Aragorn saw how impractical an idea it had been. Even if he had more than an hour to give to this errand, it was beyond his strength to move the giant slabs of masonry. He lifted a piece of blackened marble with the toe of his boot and then let it fall again, causing the debris to well up around his ankles.   
  
Sighing heavily, he coughed a little on the ash and soot. He had hoped to greet Denethor once more, to clasp his arm as the brothers-in-arms they were, and to forge new memories to overlay that last awkward exchange outside Pelargir before he had sailed for Umbar – but fate had willed it otherwise. And Denethor's death had robbed them of the chance to make amends. Aragorn knew he was doomed to live, much as Denethor had been doomed to die, and he longed to say something, anything, to make up for his silence so long ago.   
  
He turned to leave, but before he could take even a step back towards the city, he stopped. A wind blew past him, billowing out his cloak behind him. It carried the scent of growing things, he guessed from the copse of trees located a little ways down the street. Not the heavy stench of fire and death but the perfume of flowers, like the _simbelmyne_ of Rohan. The winds hinted at a coming rain, and suddenly Aragorn remembered the words Glorfindel had spoken to him in his youth, about Elvenhome beyond the Sea: _'Tis like the most beautiful song, growing stronger until the grey rain-curtain is at last rolled back, and the veil turns all to glass and silver, and a far green country opens before you under a swift sunrise_   
  
Aragorn smiled to himself. The thought of Denethor in the farthest West was more invigorating to his soul than the scent of fresh-bruised athelas. He still craved a token and perhaps he would find one somewhere, but for the moment that memory satisfied him. He would hold Minas Tirith's gates in his friend's stead, and welcome the age of peace he knew Denethor had hoped for. And, for today, that would be enough.  
  


* * *

  
**Notes** : The statement Aragorn remembers is adapted from Tolkien's description of Frodo's dream in "The House of Tom Bombadil,"  _The Fellowship of the Ring_ .   
  
In Greek philosophy air is the atmosphere immediately surrounding the earth (not to be confused with the higher atmosphere composed of aethir). It is connected to the soul. In popular usage, air itself as breath (what keeps us alive and rejuvenates us) and wind (which blows away troubles and brings news from distant lands).   
  
Thank you to agape4gondor for the beta work. This was written for just_ann_now at the request of ribby.


End file.
